


Said the Spider to the Fly

by bertee



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Murder, Psychologists & Psychiatrists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:44:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bertee/pseuds/bertee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jensen is a psychiatrist with a sideline in cannibalism and Jared is a patient with issues of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Said the Spider to the Fly

When he was younger, Jared caught bugs.

He used one of his own tiny shoeboxes, daubing the inside with fingerpaint and sticking down scraps of wallpaper to make it as hospitable as possible. He was the proprietor of a hotel instead of the warden of a prison; the bugs weren't captives but welcomed guests.

It's twenty-five years later, when he walks into Dr Ackles' office, that he understands how the bugs must have felt.

It slots in neatly alongside Jared's expectations of a psychiatrist's office. The sea-green walls are vaguely comforting, the couches are comfortably professional, and the books and pictures decorating the room are professionally vague. Like his childhood shoebox, it follows a well-intentioned template which doesn't make the reality any less unsettling.

"Jared." Dr Ackles' smile is wide enough to show teeth. "Good to meet you at last. Please, take a seat." He unfolds to stand up, perfectly at home against the calm walls and solid furnishings. "Coffee?"

"Three sugars," Jared says with a grateful smile.

Settling on the left side of the couch, he listens to the rush of the coffee as he tugs the sleeves of his sweater down over his knuckles. Dr Ackles has probably diagnosed him already based on the creases in his clothes. (He knew he should've brought a clean shirt.)

The cups are bone china. Jared watches the steam dance over the surface as Dr Ackles returns to his chair. "Thanks, doc."

"Jensen," he offers. "I think first name terms is a decent place to start."

Jared nods as his mind fits the new name to the man in front of him. He has no expectations for what a 'Jensen' should look like and so the doctor is as good a match as any. He's maybe a handful of years older than Jared but dresses like he's twice that, in a herringbone suit that would be stuffy on anyone with more arrogance in their posture. He's attractive, the line of his jaw and the bow of his lips somewhere between delicate and dangerous, and Jared shifts at the weight of the warm green gaze resting on him.

Maybe forcing him into therapy wasn't the worst idea Jeff's ever had.

"So how does this work?" Jared asks, curling his fingers over the frayed edge of his sleeve. "Do I sit here and talk about my job and my psyche and my childhood pets until you solve me?"

Jensen laughs, hooking his fingers through the bracket of the cup. "Contrary to popular belief, there are some notable differences between people and Rubix cubes." He leans back in his chair to sip his coffee, no hint of mockery in his voice. "You're not here to be solved, Jared. I couldn't do that even if I wanted to."

Jared manages a nervous smile. "So what are you going to do to me?"

"With you," Jensen corrects. "This is a collaborative process. You're going to be with me every step of the way."

"Somehow 'what are you going to do with me?' doesn't sound a whole lot better."

Jensen just chuckles. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

Jared frowns. "Jeff said he knew you. You know why I'm here."

"Detective Morgan and I go way back," Jensen agrees. "He's a good man. A good cop too, by all accounts, but today I'm more interested in what you have to to tell me." He sets the cup back on the table. "How about your job? I understand you work with Morgan?"

Despite his reservations about Jensen (and his office and the whole damn idea of therapy), Jared finds himself relaxing at the question. It's a softball one, he recognizes that, but the familiarity of the answer is as soothing as the warm slide of coffee down his throat.

"I'm a profiler," he says. "I consult on murder cases."

"What does that involve?"

"I work with the cops," Jared says. "I look at the crime scene and the evidence, then I analyse the method and pattern of the crimes to build up a profile of the person responsible."

Jensen raises his eyebrows and when he speaks, Jared's certain that he's not just feigning enthusiasm. "Sounds exciting."

Jared smiles, forces himself to rest his feet flat on the ground from where his heels are curled up against the couch. "Something like that."

He runs a hand through his hair and selects his words carefully. "The reason I'm so good at my job, the reason Jeff works with me, is because I can put myself in the mind of killers. I can see what they see and I can try to understand why they made the decisions they did."

Braced for ridicule or revulsion, he blinks when the only spark lighting Jensen's eyes is one of intrigue.

"That's quite a talent," Jensen says. "A rare one too, I'd imagine."

His voice is level and polite but Jared can't shake the impression that he's toning down his interest in the topic.

He leans forward to grasp the cup of coffee, foolishly pleased at the prospect of being so appealing to someone like Jensen. "You haven't dealt with this before?"

The intonation is an afterthought. Jensen doesn't take his eyes off him as he straightens his cuffs. "You're my first."

A guilty flush warms Jared's cheeks but Jensen's smile stays placid. "There's no cause for concern. I deal with a lot of people who are rare in their own ways." His eyes drop to Jared's lips. "Do you enjoy your job?"

Jared flattens the instinctive 'no' against the roof of his mouth. He's not stupid, knows it's not the best idea to tell a psychiatrist he enjoys thinking like a murderer, but he feels honest under Jensen's gaze, carved open enough to let the truth fall out. "Yes."

He's quick to qualify. "Most of the time, anyway. It's stressful and exhausting and..." Images of bodies trickle onto his eyelids as he searches for the right words. "Goddamn horrific, at times. But I'm helping people, you know? Something good comes out of it."

"Comes out of what?"

"Me," Jared says, digging his nails into the soft fabric of his sleeves. "Me doing what I do."

His shirt collar feels tight when he looks up, as though he's being guided like a dog on a leash. Jensen's hands rest on the leather of his chair and the bodies fall away at the thought of being drawn in by those hands, of pressing his lips to the soft swell of Jensen's mouth until his tongue meets teeth.

"Do you ever feel guilty?"

The question snaps him back to his seat. Jensen's looking at him with what he hopes is curiosity, and Jared tucks his sleeves further over his knuckles to anchor himself.

"No," he lies. Behind his eyelids, the bodies are back. "It's always tragic but there's nothing I could've done to save them."

The bodies crawl over each other, a writhing mass of limbs and flesh as each one fights to remind him that it's _their_ death that should make him feel most guilty. A young man fights to the surface, his corpse swollen and slick from weeks spent in the lakewater, before he's pushed down by charred hands with broken nails. They're wrenched aside in an instant to leave an old man smiling at him with half a jaw.

"Cake?"

Jared barely holds in his surprised laugh. Half-convinced he's still lost in his head, he blinks when he sees Jensen standing next to the sideboard, a small plate in hand. "What?"

Jensen's smile is benevolent. "I asked whether you wanted a snack. It seemed like you could use a break."

"Uh, yeah." Jared smoothes his damp hands on his slacks, conscious of the creases there too. "Cake would be great."

The small plate is the same bone china. There's a neat square of fruit cake in the center and Jensen sets a tiny fork beside it, the kind Jared thought were only used by small children at tea parties. Jensen settles back in his seat with his own plate, and Jared pushes the bodies back into the recesses as he asks, "Do you bake cakes for all your patients?"

"The combination's served me well in the past." He grins, relaxed and genuine, and Jared can't help the tug at the corners of his own lips as he slices off a forkful. "I find people need a respite sometimes and this is preferable to stale cookies in plastic wrappers."

The cake is soft and moist, a jumble of flavors tripping over his tastebuds, and Jared hums with pleasure. "Agreed." He licks a crumb from the corner of his mouth and watches the way Jensen's eyes linger. "It's rich."

"Moderately wealthy," Jensen says with a shrug. His fork glints as he pries the last of the crumbs from the tines. "Now, I think you were going to tell me why Detective Morgan referred you to me?"

The lump in his throat is just food, Jared tells himself as he sets the plate down. Ever since his appointment with Dr Ackles was confirmed, he's been through this story dozens of times, picking out phrases like accessories, like he's dressing up as his best, most undamaged self for the doctor's benefit.

He winds his way through the minefield. He tells Jensen about the case he's been working, about the media's nickname of 'the glass-eyed killer', and about the three men found with shards of a mirror driven through their eye sockets.

(He doesn't tell him about the bloody indents left in the floor beneath the second victim, where the shards were driven in deep enough to nail him in place.)

He tells him about his insights into the case, about the killer's preferences in his victims, and about Jake, the friendly bartender who fit the type exactly.

(He doesn't tell him that, after a stressful, shaken night, he slept with Jake. He doesn't plan on telling that to anyone.)

He doesn't need to tell the rest. The next murder, the discovery of the body, Jake's splintered, bloody reflection were all predictable, all wreckage of the constantly oncoming train that makes up Jared's life, but he tells it anyway.

His hands are shaking in his too-long sleeves by the time he gets to the part about being ordered into therapy on pain of Jeff but his coffee is cold when he reaches for it. "That's all of it," he says with a weak smile. "Except for how we still haven't caught the son of a bitch."

Jensen frowns. "But none of that's unusual, is it? You must see a lot of death -- you can't solve every case immediately."

Jared shifts in his seat. He isn't wrong -- they often don't catch their killer until more people have died -- but he can't remember a case going on this long once he's gotten involved. He does his best work in the eye of the storm, so deep in the mindset of a killer that he barely notices the destruction around him, but when no crucial insight came from Jake's death, he found himself dragged into the debris.

"I'm good at my job," he says. "I thought we would've caught the guy by now. I-" He swallows, Jake's sightless gaze fixed on him as he admits, "I have nightmares."

He feels weak just saying it out loud. There's no judgment in Jensen's eyes though, none of the pity he gets from Jeff, like Jared's a faithful dog he might have to put down, and he feels bold enough to elaborate.

"There's always one," he says. "With each killer, there's one victim who stays with me. It's usually the last one, the one that helps me catch the bad guy, but this time Jake's dead and the killer's still out there."

 _And his blood is on my hands_ , he doesn't say.

From the expression on Jensen's face, he doesn't need to.

"You're dreaming about Jake?"

"And the others," Jared says. "I keep hoping it'll stop when we catch the guy but he's still out there."

He watches Jensen's fingers as they knit together. "In these dreams, do you try to save the victims?"

Inside Jared's head, Jake laughs.

"No," Jared says quietly. "They're just... there." He tucks his thumbs under his sleeves. "Should I be trying to save them?"

He's expecting a non-committal answer, maybe the question spun back to him, and so he stills at Jensen's response.

"No."

He says it like he's concerned Jared would think otherwise. "You can't save the dead, Jared. At least in your dreams you're acknowledging that. You can learn from them, you can make use of everything they give you, but you can't bring them back."

He sits forward. "Jake's death was tragic, I'm sure, but it doesn't have to be the key to catching the perpetrator. There are other clues, other bodies, despite all the weight you're attaching to this one."

Weight's the right word. Jared's felt it in his skull for days, driven in as deep as the mirrored daggers, but he could swear it lessens at Jensen's assurances.

"What are you thinking?" Jensen asks, eyes like glass.

"I'm thinking you're right," Jared says, pleased at the conclusion. "I think I feel lighter already."

Jensen's lips curve upwards and the bodies crawl away when Jared thinks how much he'd like to kiss him.

"Well, that's a good start," Jensen says, brushing down his slacks. "Let's hope your next session has the same effect."

He's standing before Jared can question him. Ignoring the ache in his fingers which demands that he push Jensen back down, curl his hand around his dick, and see what shapes his mouth makes when he comes, Jared stands too.

"I- Thank you. I wasn't sure about this but you-" He bites his lip. "This feels like a good match."

Jensen's hand is warm on his shoulder, his teeth bright and eyes sharp. "I couldn't agree more. I hope to see you again soon, Jared."

Jared feels pleasantly hollow when he leaves. The bodies are cowering rather than clamoring now and Jared settles in the driver's seat with a yawn as he pushes the sleeves of his sweater back.

The blood is stark on the shirt beneath, a resilient mist from when he planted his knees on Jake's arms and drove the shards home, but where detergent failed at concealment, the roll of material up towards his elbows succeeds.

He knew he should've brought a clean shirt.

Jake's face jolts behind his eyes when he turns the key in the ignition but it fades just as fast under the memory of Jensen's warm gaze. Jared can't tell him, of course, can't explain what it's like in the eye of that storm or say exactly what _the mindset of a killer_ encompasses, but that doesn't stop him from taking comfort in his words.

There's always one, one extra body Jared chalks onto each killer's tally, but something good comes out of it. They catch the bad guy.

And if they don't, then there are other clues.

Other bodies.

The sun is shining as he pulls the car out onto the street. His next session with Dr Ackles remains an intriguing concern but, Jared thinks, at least he made it out alive.

It's more than he can say for the bugs he caught as a child.


End file.
